Mon Petit Prince
by Taras V
Summary: A Small Collection of France/Russia Drabbles. Timeframe: Late 1700's. Fluff.


**Mon Petit Prince**

_(A Small Collection of France/Russia Drabbles)_

**Timeframe:** Late 1700's

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><p><strong>Crêpes<strong>

"Ah," France sighs, looking forlornly at the too-thick slather of pancake batter all over the pan. "Perhaps I should show you how to do it first," He scrapes the mess onto a plate and picks up the ladle. "Your goal is to make the crêpe paper-thin, and ensure that it cooks without burning. You can tell that one side is ready when the edges change color and- egad! _Ivan, why are you eating that!"_

"Ih's stiw good..." Russia asserted through a mouthful of ungodly failure.

"It's still _raw_."

"Only 'sum of it!" cried the younger nation indignantly. He swallowed, then picked up the plate and licked it perfectly clean. France could only gape at him in horrified silence.

"Good god. Why on earth did you..."

"You were going to throw it away." Russia pouted accusingly.

"Yes, but... I don't wish to be rude with you... But it was beyond saving."

"Nyet: I have eaten worse."

France automatically shuddered. The very thought of his Russia subsisting on kitchen scraps... Well. It was time to try a new tactic instead.

Setting the skillet and wooden paddle aside for a moment, and with the air of a man who certainly wasn't doing this for the first time, he wrapped his arms tightly around Russia's middle. "Bien, bien..." he nodded complacently, feeling Russia tense up against him. "I owe you an apology in that case. And, as you are my guest, I would love nothing more than to make breakfast for you."

"Ah- ç- ça va..." Russia replied, wriggling out of France's more than slightly provocative embrace. "But can I still help something?"

France cast a wary glance at the vitrina: between the fine china and Italian glass lay a realm of terrible possibilities. "...you may fold the napkins if you so desire, my love. Fold them very, very carefully." And, having assured himself that Russia was in a position where he posed no danger, either to himself or to objects around him, France dropped a slab of fresh butter onto the skillet.

"Francis~" Russia called over his shoulder. "Do you need me to lay out the silverware?"

"Whichever you prefer!" France shouted back over the loud sizzling of batter.

"...I don't know! I don't normally eat food with silverware!"

France decided it might be better if he just didn't ask.

* * *

><p><strong>A French Lesson<strong>

"No, no, not like that, Ivan. A French 'r' is not rolled like a drunk man in a barrel. It comes from the back of the throat. Try it again- 'troix'..."

"Trrra."

France lets out a sigh, rolling over onto his back, resting his head against Russia's crossed legs. "If it helps, think of it as a 'wah' instead of an 'rah'."

Russia stares down at him blankly. "But I do not have a sound like that in my alphabet."

"Hmm. Well, use the closest thing."

"Tva?"

France cannot help smiling. "Now it sounds Russian again- oh, don't scowl so, cherie! You'll ruin that pretty face of yours."

"I cannot help it! You're making fun of me again."

"Teasing. I am _teasing_ you, Russia. There is a difference."

* * *

><p><strong>Valencia Oranges <strong>

"Ooh, who is all this for, France? Your newest mistress?" Spain inquired, winking lewdly in the direction of the large basket of pomegranates and oranges that sat beside his companion.

"Mistress?" France furrowed his brows and placed a hand over his chest, feigning hurt. "Is that the kind of man you take me for? Non. This is for my Russie, who's due by boat in less than a day by Marseilles..."

A warm breath of wind passed through the orchard, drawing a loud yawn out of the swarthier nation. Leaning back lazily against one of the tree, he muttered: "You're going to spoil him rotten like this,"

"Well, that's just it." France sighed, sifting through heavy, olive-laden branches with a delicate hand. "I rather think he needs to be spoiled. He's suffered so much, and at such a young age... And yet, he has never had a lover to cherish him. He has known neither woman nor man- so pure is my Russie that not even a kiss has graced his lips~ It is not often you meet a young person so full of virtue..."

"Although, I do believe you'll soon relieve him of it." Spain laughed, tipping the brim of his hat so that it covered his face- whether it was France's melodious prose or the afternoon heat, his siesta was calling to him.

* * *

><p><strong>Childhood Memories <strong>

"Don't laugh at me. I feel... A bit out of place among Catherine's people." Russia turned over to face him. "She wants me to dress up and read fine books and be well-bred and courteous... And I hardly recognize myself anymore when I look in the mirror. I think- is this the same person who spent his childhood chasing chickens and peeling potatoes?"

"Hmm." France nestled a bit closer, brushing a few stray locks of straw-colored hair out of his face. "That sounds... charmingly rustic. Do you miss that sort of existence?"

Russia sighed. "I don't know... It was... a hard life. We were always very poor, and... it _is_ rather nice having as much food as I want and a warm coat and shoes that I don't have to steal."

France raised an eyebrow at this admission, amused. "You stole shoes?"

"It was only once! And I had to give them back when my sister found out. She spanked me almost the whole way down to the village, shouting about how she'd raised me to be better than that- and what must God think of my sinful behavior- and shouldn't I be setting a better example for my people than that? The worst part is that they weren't even good shoes." he laughs. "But I feared too much for my backside to steal after that."

"Your sacrifice was not in vain; you have a lovely backside." France observed, grinning.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

EDIT: Just found some random bits of text that got cut off. A little saddened that nobody pointed this out (although it's my fault anyway for skipping that third proofread. XD)

[1] As far as I'm aware, the only real difference between French crepes and Russian blinchiki is that the latter doesn't use any yeast. That being said, just wait until France is forced to watch Russia smother his breakfast in sour cream, like he does everything. Poor, poor France.

[2] Rolling your R's in Russian is Serious Business, mind you.

[3] Because nothing says love like fresh fruit!

[4] I totally didn't write that entire oneshot just to have the excuse to use that last line.


End file.
